Blood Types
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: After Wilson is involved in an accident, House loses control and is forced to face everything he's been running away from. No slash intended. Please read and review. Spoilers for Clueless.
1. Chapter 1: Could I, Should I

A/N: So I decided to start this new fic. My idea is that it'll be something akin to **Stumble**, but I'm actually going to try hard to make it more in character. I hope it works out.

No slash intended. Please read and review.

**LiveJournal Users**: I just started a new community if you're interested. It's called **housemdfriends**, made with the purpose of focusing on the friendships of House with no romance or slash allowed. Anyone's welcome to join. My profile here has a link to my personal LJ, and if you go there and click on my userinfo, you'll find the community there. Thanks.

Theme Song for this Fic: **"Ghost of You" by My Chemical Romance.**

* * *

Chapter 1

"Could I, Should I"

House sighed as he tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and limped over to the refrigerator for a beer. Friday, at last. The end of a crap week, which was really just a crap day. He was going to put it all out of his mind and relax. He even yanked the phone cord out of its socket, as he made his way into the living room, and almost grinned when he remembered no one ever called his home phone.

Wilson had been pissed. House had caught him packing his bags back into his car around 9 o'clock that morning, oblivious to the lost apartment.

"Oh, yeah," House had started, limping toward his bike. "The landlord of that apartment complex called. Someone offered him more money for the place."

Wilson had blinked.

"And?"

"And obviously, unless you offer more, the place is going to the other guy."

"When did he call?"

"Last night."

Wilson's hands had slipped away from his suitcase. "Did you talk to him?"

"No, he left a message."

"I didn't see the machine blinking --"

"That's because I deleted it."

Wilson had moved into his signature stance, hands on his hips. It had been a bright, yellow morning – the kind that annoyed House because it made him squint.

"You know, you can be a real jerk sometimes," Wilson had said, catching House off-guard.

"What do you --?"

"Did you think it would be funny? If you want me out so damn badly, why can't you just stop screwing around with my business? Now I have to look for _another_ place."

"But--"

"God, don't you have any consideration?" Wilson had shut the trunk and walked around to the driver's side. "I'll get a room in a hotel. Don't bother looking for me around lunch; I've got paperwork to do."

So House had speeded on his way to work and spent the day in a particularly sour mood. He hadn't bothered with lunch at all, racked up a handful of offended clinic patients instead of just one or two, and had continuously snapped at his team sans humor. He was proud to say his anger had lasted for the majority of the day, not allowing him to find Wilson and apologize or explain like a whipped puppy. If Wilson wanted to be pissed, fine. He could go stay in a hotel all weekend. House didn't care. This way, he could actually sleep in tomorrow.

Now, however, the anger had worn off, and disappointment had replaced it. It didn't help that the pillow and blanket were still sitting on the other side of the couch from that morning.

House sipped on his beer. Whatever. He'd lived in this place alone for years; it wasn't the end of the world if he kept it up instead of tolerating Wilson's company. He would just give the oncologist the weekend to cool off and things would be back to normal on Monday.

He sighed to himself again. So what about dinner? The last thing he felt like doing was actually trying to cook, and as Wilson had said, he didn't have much lying around other than chips and peanut butter. Maybe there was something of Wilson's left in the fridge that he hadn't seen... He'd probably go out eventually. It was only after eight o'clock.

He wrinkled his nose. What was this crap on TV? He picked up the remote and brought up the program description. Great. Do-it-yourself room makeover. Idiots cutting up wood and painting walls.

The high-pitched ring tone on his cell phone shrieked from his pocket, and his mood wasn't lifted when he saw that is was Cuddy.

"Sorry, Echidna, it's after hours," he muttered, throwing his phone on the coffee table. It rang for another minute before stopping, and he picked up on his drinking again.

A moment later, she called for the second time.

"Why do you torment me?" he asked aloud. "It's Friday. My day sucked donkey nuts. Leave me alone."

The phone maxed out its ring and stopped. House leaned over and switched it to vibrate.

Not thirty seconds later, its harsh buzz started to move it against the tabletop. House rolled his eyes and took another drink. She probably just wanted to yell at him for the multitude of pissed off clinic patients he was responsible for today. She could leave a message that he would delete later without listening.

The phone vibrated a few more inches for a fourth time, and he ignored it no matter how bored he was with the TV.

Finally, his pager wailed against his waist.

"God damn it, Cuddy."

But he stopped when he read her message.

_Wilson. _

House snatched his phone up and hit six, not stopping to ponder for the hundredth time how sad it was that Cuddy was on his speed dial list.

"Cuddy?"

"House! Do you _ever_ answer your phone?"

"What about Wilson?"

"Some ass of a receptionist just called me from St. Peter's."

House felt his heart grow quiet, waiting for the right time to stop.

"All she would tell me is that Wilson was brought in fifteen minutes ago. He was in some sort of accident."

"That's all she said?"

Cuddy paused. House sounded disturbingly hushed and calm.

"That's all."

He told her he'd go up to St Peter's and call her back with any news, but he didn't leave at once, after hanging up. He stood still, his shoulder to the TV. They had started to paint the walls fuchsia. He could feel his leg threaten to give out.

House didn't switch off the TV, as he picked up his cane and limped to the door. He slipped his jacket on and glanced back at the couch – the blanket and the pillow. Something inside of him wilted.

* * *

What in God's name had Wilson been doing in New Brunswick? They wouldn't have taken him to St. Peter's University Hospital otherwise. And why – _why_ – hadn't the damn receptionist known anything about Wilson's condition? It was all House could think of as he sped through the night.

What kind of accident? How bad? Was he even... No, of course, he was. Wilson could never be that angry at House. Right? House had hardly seen Wilson as angry at him as he had been this morning, but it couldn't have possibly been enough to seek vengeance this way...

Head trauma? Broken bones? Internal bleeding? How was brain function? What condition was his spine in?

God, what if he was paralyzed? Or a vegetable? What if they couldn't bring him out of a coma? What if his face had been disfigured? What if he'd been burned? What if he needed a major organ transplant and couldn't wait more than a few days? What if he was permanently mentally handicapped? What if he had lost his memory and couldn't recognize anyone anymore?

House ran a red light.

He squeezed the handlebars as he realized that Wilson's last memory of him may forever be a negative one. It wasn't often that House regretted things, but this sensation couldn't be anything except regret. He had pissed Wilson off, he had been an asshole, and he hadn't apologized. God, if he had just _apologized_, if he had just dropped the indignation earlier that day and found Wilson and explained... If he had just stopped his friend from driving off in the morning, if he had just said that he wanted Wilson to stay... This wouldn't have happened.

And even if it would have – at least this unresolved, idiotic conflict wouldn't exist additionally.

Why hadn't House just _explained_? Why hadn't he just been honest? His motto was that everybody lies, but he was no different. Why hadn't he just admitted the simple truth?

_I want to know if there's an alternative to loneliness. _

If was honest – with himself – he would open up to the truth that lay in that blanket and pillow abandoned on the end of his couch, to the truth that was encoded in that last Post-it on his refrigerator. His friendship with Wilson could be the salvation he thought he had lost with Stacy. He didn't have to be detached. He didn't have to be – miserable.

What had Wilson said? What had Wilson said every day they'd known each other? House suddenly wanted to know, no matter how insignificant.

"_You're so afraid if you change, you'll lose what makes you special."_

No. He was afraid that if he changed, he'd be forced to feel that same pain – not the constant throb in his leg, but the raw pain that almost induced a Zen state of mind, a pain so absolute that nothing and no one could bring relief. It was the pain that arrived when one of those destined relationships fell apart against Divine will.

_I want you to stay. _

House hadn't explained because he feared that pain would come – and behold, it had come anyway.

He swerved into a right turn and debated whether or not to speed up, even though he was already fifteen miles over the limit.

_It's not because I like to subject you to my cruelty. It's not because I want to use you for the improvement of my own lifestyle. I don't want your money or your food (well, maybe I do). I want to stop being by myself_.

Maybe he was in denial, maybe he really did just want to use Wilson once again to recover from another earthquake Stacy caused. Or maybe he really was allowing himself to want the possibility – that he could be happy without her, that he didn't need to put himself through awkward date after awkward date with women who didn't really interest him beyond their cleavage or their legs. Maybe he was willing to look for happiness in one last place, even if no one else could fathom it.

_I just let go of the only woman I want. Your third marriage just crumbled away. But what if we still have hope? What if we could be all right in a different way? _

It was not that he and Wilson didn't already have a friendship that was perhaps the best relationship in each of their lives, however flawed it might be. Whether Wilson had ever needed to crash at House's place or not, they would have stayed best friends undoubtedly until one of them croaked. They would even if Wilson found an apartment of his own. It wasn't about keeping their friendship, not even about keeping its importance.

Living together would mean – not having to go home to solitude. It would mean finding some enjoyment in their personal lives again. It would mean real meals for House and – laughter. It seemed like he only ever laughed in Wilson's company.

He would have someone to talk to other than the rat. Of course, he called Wilson whenever he wanted already, but even House had to admit that it felt better to have a conversation with someone in their presence, rather than over the phone.

No more calling Wilson out of important dinners or planning on spending the holidays alone. No more struggling with pain on his own or wallowing in melancholy. Banter and mischief and support would replace all of that. That's what it would mean.

He had considered the nuisances of less privacy and less sleep (damn blow dryer). He was aware that more time together meant more opportunity for dispute (the TV, first and foremost) and annoying concern, that he would have to get used to Wilson's habits and vice versa. He was aware that fooling around with hookers or, in Wilson's case, dates would probably mean staying at a hotel and explaining why. But House secretly wanted to believe that maybe what good could come out of it would be worth all the inconvenience.

He had spent the last few weeks facing his choice to permanently cut Stacy out of his life and the place that choice had put him in. She was the only one he wanted. She was the only woman he would tolerate. Any other was only good for the sex, but companionship was something he would only take from her. Turning her away had been the equivalent of rejecting romance until further notice, probably for the rest of his life. He had always known she was the One, and she did too. No matter how many other women he might entertain in the future, he would always know Stacy was the One in the back of his mind.

And Wilson had always known this too. That's why it had upset him when House decided to turn her away. Wilson knew, with the same awareness he had of his own missing Mrs. Right, that House wasn't going to find that sense of destiny in any other woman. He had hoped, before Stacy had returned, that House would find someone else, but now he could see clearly that Stacy wasn't just House's One. She was his _only_ One.

House didn't know if Wilson had a woman like Stacy waiting for him, but he did know that after all the failure, it was probably best that his friend take a break and seriously consider himself and the puzzle of his love life, before jumping into yet another ill-fated marriage.

Or maybe House was just being selfish.

He realized, as he slowed while approaching the welcome sign for Middlesex County, that regardless of how fast he traveled, he was already late. Wilson could already be dead – or brain damaged. And even if he wasn't severely fucked up, he was still ignorant of House's reasoning. Would any explanation make a difference now? House had waited too long. He'd only make himself look pathetic.

_Yeah, I decided to be sentimental after you landed yourself in the hospital. I really wanted to reek of sincerity. _

House almost didn't know why he was going to St Peter's. He was sure the last person Wilson wanted to see, if Wilson was even conscious, was him. He told himself that _someone_ had to find out the oncologist's condition, and he just happened to be the guy Cuddy had called. That's what he would tell Wilson.

He suddenly noticed the presence of dread at the thought of going back home – to that emptiness, that blanket and pillow on his couch. He should be used to it. It's what he'd been telling himself. He's used to it. He's used to being alone.

He's _used_ to it.

But he was starting to ask himself why the hell he should be.

And he was starting to doubt that he was.

How was he going to apologize? Should he even bother now? What if Wilson really wasn't all right...?

_I'm sorry for stealing your salad._

Ugh, fuck, that's wrong.

_I'm sorry for being an asshole._

How did that make a difference if he wasn't going to stop being an asshole?

_I'm sorry for deleting your message, but I had a good reason. _

Yeah, he was an asshole.

_I'm for sorry for deleting your message. It was rude. I just want you to know that I didn't do it for fun, I did it because I want you to – stay. _

Maybe that could work, if he had the balls to say it.

And if Wilson wasn't okay? House didn't have the slightest idea what he would do. As if this living arrangement business wasn't enough to bring up Wilson's meaning in his life, now he had to deal with this situation.

_Wilson._

House didn't think he had ever considered the oncologist's importance before. Wilson had been around for so long, House had slipped into the comfort of that consistency. Even in the beginning, House hadn't been consciously appreciative. Wilson was his friend, and that's the way it was supposed to be. He had almost felt _entitled_ to it. Now, however, when he stopped to examine it for the first time, he was beginning to see how privileged he was. He wouldn't say "blessed" because he wasn't religious, but "lucky" didn't fit either. Privilege felt right. It truly was a privilege to have Wilson's friendship.

Wilson had been the one part of his life to remain untouched by change in the last decade, the one rock House had learned to rely on and trust. Maybe that previous uniformity was one of the reasons he was afraid to bring up this living arrangement idea. Having Wilson stay would mean change. Changing his friendship with Wilson – scared the hell out of him. Coming to terms with the enormity of Wilson's importance to him did too.


	2. Chapter 2: If I Fall

A/N: Woah, so I already wrote this... It feels too short to me, not fleshy enough. Meh.

No slash intended! Please Read and Review, thanks.

Listen to: **"So Far, So Good" by Thornley.**

* * *

_Chapter 2_

"If I Fall"

By the time House pulled into an empty "Employees Only" space right near the front entrance, it was already a quarter to ten. He snapped his cane out of its holster and only took off his helmet as he hurried through the door, tucking it under his free arm. The on-duty receptionist looked up at him, as he approached.

"I need to know about a Dr. James Wilson."

"Does he work here? He's not on duty..."

"No, no, he doesn't work here! He's a patient, brought in about two hours ago. Someone called Lisa Cuddy over at Princeton-Plainsboro and notified her."

She referred to her computer for a moment, before switching over to the paperwork on her desk, and House's fingers danced impatiently on his helmet.

"Ah, right. Dr. James Wilson. Brought in at 7:55 PM, mild head trauma. Should be in room 228, second floor."

House lunged off without thanking her, almost certain his heart must be palpitating. Head trauma. Never mind _mild_. _Head trauma._

_Head trauma, head trauma, head trauma. _

And he was two hours late. Fuck.

He shoved his finger into the top button, once he reached the elevator, his body giving an involuntary shudder when the door slid open and reminded him of always riding the PPTH elevators with his oncologist friend. As he stepped in and pressed the second floor button, he was more than aware of having to ride this one alone.

He strode out onto the second floor as if it was PPTH, and he had every right to be there. One of the nurses called out to him that visiting hours were over, and he ignored her, limping toward the hallway that had the plaque reading 200-230 on the preceding wall.

"Sir! Sir!"

_Head trauma, head trauma_.

_I'm sorry I ate your salad..._

His eyes darted periodically across the long, wide hall, and he didn't stop to wonder if this nurse was letting him win or he really was faster than her.

Room 228. Room 228.

_I want you to stay._

The long stretch of quiet tile was dimly lit, and he wasn't sure why. Past visiting hours, sure, but still only 10 o'clock. Was this the death wing? Was this like the God damn death row in a maximum security prison?

_Head trauma, head trauma. _

No, she said mild. She said _mild._ Wilson's not dying. Wilson's not filler for a freezer cubicle. Mild, mild, mild. He's not dead, he's not dying. Only two hours late. Room 228.

He stopped. The numbers were a silent, white piercing on the wall to his right. He was adjacent to the door, with its solid 10x12 window, uselessly decorated with black criss-crosses. He hated hospitals like this. He hated the isolation, the solidarity of everything. The only thing similar in PPTH was the clinic. He much preferred the glass rooms, the opportunity to know and see without invading space. He hated doors like this – the kind that reminded him of prison cells. He could almost imagine Wilson curled up on the floor beyond this window, half-dead and malnourished and beaten and...

The steel handle gave way under his hand. His shoulder connected with the door, brushing the bottom of that window. He pushed. He pushed as if he were capsizing a ship.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the ingratitude. _

And he stood in that familiar, hospital light, letting it stream out into the hallway. Wilson lay in the bed, hand over his eyes and elbow pointed to heaven. House didn't know what to think.

Wilson let himself see, looked up to crease his brow.

"House?" He began to push himself up. "What are you doing here?"

And House didn't know what to think. He shut his eyes, felt the ocean pour in around him and roar in his ears. His hand stayed the steel. He felt the light bathe his wrinkled face.

_Stay, salad, sorry..._

"House?"

He looked at Wilson and vaguely noted that his friend appeared to be okay. Those brown eyes took hold of him and forced his own to stay open. They waited. It was House's turn to speak.

"I – came to see what happened. Cuddy called."

He listened to himself. He didn't sound the way he felt.

"Oh. They – must've found my hospital ID in my wallet. I just woke up..."

"Do you know what happened?"

"I – think it was a car accident. I'm not sure."

"They didn't give Cuddy any details, so I have no idea."

House let go of the door and limped to the end of the bed, picking up Wilson's charts out of the bin. He propped his cane up against the bed and flipped through the packet.

"Concussion. No other injuries listed. X-rays and scans clear."

_Thank God. Thank Buddha, thank Allah, thank everything I don't believe in. _

"So I'm okay," said Wilson tentatively, sinking back down and rubbing his forehead.

"Fluids and low dose of Demerol prescribed," House continued.

"What happened?" Wilson asked the ceiling. He shut his eyes, looking troubled. "I don't remember."

"Do you remember being angry at me?"

Wilson looked at House again.

"Yeah."

House stared at him intensely for a moment before looking back down at the paperwork.

"Sorry for – overreacting," Wilson said. House didn't absorb it immediately, but once he did, a grin stung his face.

"You're sorry? I thought I was the one being a jerk."

"It was just a message. And plus, it's you. I shouldn't have been surprised."

The smile faded. House swallowed and carefully put the charts back in their bin. He picked up his cane, leaned gently against it. His blue eyes lifted precociously, but Wilson wasn't looking at him anymore.

"There you are! Look, I'm sorry, sir, but visiting hours are over. You have to leave."

A balding stranger in a white coat had interrupted this silence. House peered over his shoulder at him. Must be a doctor. The other kind. The kind House wasn't.

"Please. You can come back in the morning, after nine," the stranger continued.

"I want to talk to you outside," said House. He turned back to face Wilson. What was it he had been planning to say?

_Sorry, message, salad, lonely._

What was it he wanted to say?

"Tell Cuddy I'm fine," said Wilson. And House couldn't tell what kind of tone he had. "I'll see you on Monday."

House suppressed a sigh and dropped his eyes, nodding. He turned away, waving goodbye with his shoulder, and missed the hint of regret in Wilson's face. The nameless doctor held the door open for House and shut it after them both, turning out the light in Wilson's room.

"What's the story?" House questioned. The other man, whose name tag read Larry Blackwell, sighed.

"Who _are_ you?" he answered.

"Dr. House, head of the diagnostics department at Princeton-Plainsboro, and that man in there is head of our oncology department. I want to know what happened."

Blackwell blinked in surprise. "He – was in a minor car accident, unconscious when he was brought in. I assume you read his charts; he'll be fine after recovering from the concussion. We're keeping him for observation and bed rest. He can go home tomorrow."

"What about his car?"

"I have no idea."

House paused, suddenly overcome with a sense of heaviness.

"Okay."

He side-stepped the doctor and began hobbling back the way he came. Blackwell stood at a loss.

"Well – are you going to come get him tomorrow?" he called out.

"He can catch a cab," said House, without stopping.

_Insensitive jerk. That's what you sound like. _

Blackwell watched House go, and Wilson still rubbed his eyes in the dark.

* * *

House stopped on the outskirts of Plainsboro at a bar he'd never heard of. The wiry, fluorescent clock glowed slushie red and blue near the TV. 12:25, roughly. He plopped down and ordered Bourbon. For a Friday night, the place wasn't as packed as he would have anticipated. Comfortably full, not overcrowded. 

He hadn't. He hadn't said anything. No apology, no explanation, no questions. He still didn't know why Wilson had been in New Brunswick, still didn't know if he and Wilson were okay, still hadn't changed. He sipped his whiskey.

_I don't want to stay this way. Post-its, sorry, roommates..._

God, what had he done? Thrown away opportunity. Turned away from the door out of hell. Wilson was right. He loved being miserable. He chose it.

The whiskey burned his throat, barely chilled by the ice, and he sat slumped over the bar, head in his hand. He must be the only middle-aged man in this bar without a girlfriend, a lover, a wife, kids. He must be the only cripple, the only one who could make a difference if this bar was suddenly full of sick people that each had a different disease. That's all he had, huh? Just his damn brilliance.

The Bourbon was bitter on his lips, hot on his tongue. It reminded him of blood, of all the regret he couldn't pour out. Did he really think he could absorb it with alcohol? He slid the empty glass toward the bartender and nodded for another.

_Message, sorry, pancakes, okay, hell-out-scare-the..._

Why New Brunswick? What did the car look like? What was the other half of the accident? Another car? A pole? A fence? Wilson would swerve into a crash to avoid a little kid playing in the street, not commit suicide, no, not like that... Whose fault was it? Speeding? Alcohol? Lack of attention? Red light running?

It was his, all his, oh Bourbon.

_I'm sorry. Sorry for everything. Sorry for deleting your message and calling you out of dinner with Julie and being an asshole about Andie and making you resign to Vogler and not listening to you and making too many jokes and throwing you out and rejecting Stacy and buying the motorcycle and asking for loans and not answering my phone and lying and walking out, sorry, so sorry..._

The glass slid back and forth a third time, a fourth. Everybody's laughter sunk him further and further into this rambling depression. Bourbon had to make it better, had to drown this pain.

_You're going to spend the rest of your life alone. _

He was used to it, he was used to this. Accustomed, designed.

"_Being miserable doesn't make you better than anybody else."_

He was going to die alone.

Why had he sent Stacy away? Why hadn't he said anything to Wilson?

"_You're so afraid if you change, you'll lose what makes you special."_

Fifth, sixth, he had already finished the bottle. _Hit me up for a seventh, lucky number of days in the week to be alone, to fuck up. Hit me, hit me. God, someone hit me. Take away her touch. Take away all the other's that never happened. _

He had spent every second of his friendship with Wilson feeling entitled, failing in gratitude. He had allowed his friend's generosity to flow unchecked, and if he was honest, he had given little back. He even had to screw it up this time, when Wilson really needed support. House couldn't let him stay on his couch one night without bitching, couldn't comfort him when the wife cheated or when he was in the damn hospital. House hadn't even been able to let Wilson emote back before Julie even confessed to cheating, when Wilson had outright told him that he needed someone to talk to.

He had now also lost track of his alcohol intake.

What a fuck up.

* * *

It was past 1 o'clock when House stumbled back out toward his bike, though he didn't know that. The bar was still fairly crowded, but no one was stopping him from going home smashed on a motorcycle. He was vaguely aware that he had probably over-paid for his booze, but he didn't care. He just wanted to go home, to his fucking empty apartment. 

"Hey, man, look here!"

House didn't have to time question whose voice that was, because he was suddenly being tackled to the ground, his cane slipping out of his hand and his leg collapsing underneath him. It didn't completely register when someone socked him right in the eye or kicked him in his left side. He thought he could feel a hand slipping into his pocket for his wallet and knew he'd been right when it flopped on the tar next to his face a moment later.

He could hear footsteps fleeing out into the parking lot, cars starting and screeching away. He squeezed his eyes shut, his body aching in more than one place, his mind sloshing around with God knows how much Bourbon. Fuck. He had thought this shit day had already ended.


	3. Chapter 3: If I Die

A/N: Meh. Sorry this took long. And sorry that it's too short and sucky.

"House vs. God" was one of the best episodes ever. And yet now I'm really sad.

No slash intended.

* * *

Chapter 3

"If I Die"

* * *

When House cracked his eyes open, a weak light seeped in. He lay still for a moment, his ears gradually tuning in to an unfamiliar voice. He didn't immediately know where he was, but the chilled tar beneath his cheek soon reminded him. He turned his head up and groaned, looking into a stranger's face. 

"Hey, man, you all right?"

A kid. One of those teenaged boys who constantly sounded half-stoned. House blinked.

"Where am I?"

"Uh – parking lot, dude. You must have been _wasted_."

"Yeah, right... What time is it?"

"About a quarter after six. Pretty early for a Saturday. Hung over much?"

The kid grinned knowingly, and House was tempted to mutter something obscene. Instead, he turned his head back down and eyed his cane. The kid straightened up, while House reached over and grabbed his fifth limb.

"So what's an old guy like you doing at this place?"

House began to sit up, grunting with the heavy ache that penetrated his whole body. His head suddenly throbbed enough to induce nausea, and he grew light-headed. He paused, resting his elbow on his good knee and holding on to his head. _Fuck._

"Did you come alone? Doesn't seem like anyone who cared would leave a guy like you out here all night."

"A guy like me?" House echoed.

"Yeah." The kid shrugged. "You know – with a cane and all."

_Right. _House sighed, rubbed uselessly at his temple, shifted his weight. He pocketed his empty wallet, held out his hand, and told the kid to help. The teen furrowed his face but obliged, tugging House up unsteadily. The cane punched at the tar, and House leaned in, feeling too unstable.

"Do you have a ride, man?"

House glanced at the kid who was about six inches shorter than him.

"That's my ride."

He indicated the motorcycle with a head jerk.

"Whoa, really? Nice. I didn't think guys like you could even drive."

The kid drew near the bike, oblivious to House's sinking mood. He really needed to get home. But even though he was still intoxicated, he knew better now than to try riding that bike back on his own. He momentarily considered asking the kid to help him out, but he tossed the idea away. Teenage boys and motorcycles had never been a smart combination.

"You'd be surprised what guys like me can do," he said, and the boy half-turned to look back at him.

"So what are you waiting for?"

House's face scrunched up in disbelief. He should've known this kid was an _idiot_. "I'm hung over. I'm not going to ride a motorbike all the way back to Princeton."

"You live in Princeton? Huh. So if you're not going to ride back, how are you going to get home?"

House looked back at the tar. No idea. He could call Cuddy or one of his team, but he doubted any of them would appreciate having to come pick him up all the way out here this early on a Saturday. And he had no one else to call. He was beginning to wish it were Thursday again.

"Know someone with a pickup truck?" the kid asked.

House shook his head, concentrating on the shiny specks in the tar and appreciating the dim twilight. The kid shifted from one foot to another, trying to think of what to do, sticking his hands into his pockets. He suddenly smirked and whipped out his cell phone, dialing quietly and waiting as it rang.

"Yeah, Jace? It's me, Chris. Listen, can you come down to Lou's place? Some guy with a bike needs a lift."

House looked up at the teen in mild surprise. Since when did strangers help him out?

"Princeton," the kid continued. "He's got a cane... All right, thanks, man. I'll wait up."

The phone flipped shut and disappeared back into the boy's pocket. House stared, the throbbing in his head receding a bit. The kid offered a smile, and House blinked.

"Thanks," he said after a pause.

"I only called him 'cuz he does have a truck."

House nodded.

* * *

Not more than fifteen minutes later, an old, red pickup pulled into the parking lot, and House watched along with the kid. The driver parked and hopped out, revealing himself to be another young guy, though older than Chris. He looked sloppy, House noted, probably just rolled out of bed and dressed in whatever was lying around. 

"Hey, what's up?" the new stranger greeted.

"Hey, man. This is the guy," said Chris.

"That the bike?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. We'll just load it up in the back and get going, if that's all."

House squinted at him and nodded. The two boys moved toward the bike, and Jace wheeled it over to his truck. Together, they pushed and pulled it up into the back, while House stood watching. If he were sober and in a better mood, he might have found it amusing. It took a good ten to fifteen minutes for the boys to get the hunk of death, as Wilson liked to call it, up into the truck's cargo space. House still didn't understand why they bothered. Maybe it was because he hadn't really been an asshole yet.

House pulled himself up into the passenger's seat, once his bike was taken care of. He looked out the open window to Chris and inclined his head, mumbling another "thanks." The kid smiled cheerfully and saluted, as the truck began to pull away.

"Got pretty trashed, eh?" Jace said, once they pulled out onto the road.

"Yeah," said House. "Guess you could say that."

The drive was quiet and breezy, the sun finally out by the time they reached House's neighborhood, traffic beginning to thicken. House tried not to think, already decided that no one would hear about his mugging incident. He figured he wasn't hurt, just needed some extra Vicodin. Flipping down the passenger mirror and looking confirmed that he didn't have a black eye. One less lie to tell.

* * *

About half an hour later, House didn't bother waving goodbye to Jace, who grinned before pulling away, and when he turned into his apartment, he quickened. He locked the door, knowing the only person who could get in anyway was Wilson, and tossed his keys onto the coffee table. He surveyed his apartment: quiet, dark, empty. Not even Steve was active. Sighing, he began to limp toward the kitchen but stopped cold when he remembered something. 

He abandoned the kitchen and instead went to the storage closet and propped his cane up against the wall, reaching up for a brown chest. Fumbling awkwardly with his weight on his good leg, he opened it up and rummaged until he found a certain amber bottle. Luminal. A dangerous back-up plan he'd been harboring since the infarction. As he recalled, he had lied to the pharmacist, saying he had to pick up the prescription for a patient that couldn't make it on his own. The bottle had been locked away ever since.

He wasn't sure why he had bothered. He had the Vicodin. He also had numerous other methods available that were hell of a lot more macho. He had believed that he would never succumb to the idea, too. Or maybe that was a lie. Maybe he had just been waiting for the right time.

He pushed the box back up on the shelf and shut the closet door, limping into the living room and setting the bottle on the coffee table. He retrieved a bottle of Scotch Malt from his booze cabinet and didn't bother with a glass. His eyes fixed themselves on that plastic capsule and never left for more than a second, until he stretched out across the couch and unscrewed the whiskey cap.

He turned away for a while and tried to savor the alcohol. His leg rejoiced at finally being given some relief, some time to unwind, and the rest of his muscles thanked him. His stomach grumbled, and it took real effort not to linger on the thought of Wilson's cooking or to resist the urge to get up and make himself a sandwich. The booze and the pills would get along better on an empty stomach.

He stared hard again at the bottle, the familiar shapes within it tempting him further. He took another drink of his whiskey, decisive this time, and reached for the pills. Popping the cap off with his thumb, he grabbed a magazine from the table and laid it in his lap, shaking the bottle empty. He began to count.

"Well, Marilyn, I thought you deserved a male counterpart," he said aloud.

Thirty-six. A full bottle. Enough to do the job. He popped one in his mouth, drank, popped two more in, drank. As the pills began to disappear from the magazine, a growing heaviness pulled him down, a feeling that he couldn't deny was sadness. No one was going to bother looking for him until a few days had passed, and when someone finally would look for him, it would most likely be with an air of vexation that he had missed work. No concern.

He had no one to blame but himself. He knew that. He had gone out of his way to be an ass all his life, so that most people would leave him alone, and the few people that had tolerated him anyway, he had shut out with his dishonesty and his ongoing attempts at being too much of a jerk to bear. Had he expected anything more than total apathy in regards to his death? Had he expected it to end any other way, with nothing valuable in his life except his job?

Why had he even dared to consider asking Wilson to stay? He knew what the answer would be. He knew not even Wilson could stand to stay with him for long. He smiled bitterly to himself. Not even Wilson could coexist with him unless there was a wall, a shield, a break. God, why had he been so stupid? Why had he slipped, allowed himself to have hope? Hope was a fucking dead-end road to self-destruction.

He could hear it even now.

"_No. I don't think that's such a good idea." _

He shut his eyes, letting the words echo throughout all the empty brain space. Yes. That's exactly what Wilson would say. House would finally make himself vulnerable again, and Wilson – caring pseudo-saint that he was – would choose that one moment to crush his understated hopes.

House's head lolled back and forth, his eyes shut and his mouth fixed into that comfortable lie of being okay – a smile, a fake smile. He felt his chest burn. He really did have no choice, did he? He had locked himself into this prison of solitude, and he was going to die in it.

Hell yeah, he was going to die in it.

He finished the Scotch gradually, resting his head back on the sofa arm again, and it didn't take long for the drowsiness to intensify. He tossed the empty pill bottle as far as he could manage, in no particular direction. He sighed, the sound of the phone's ring faintly registering in the edges of his brain.

_"I got no problem with people killing themselves, but don't think it makes you a hero."_

No, he was no hero. He was just a man utilizing his last method of control.


End file.
